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(Re)Learning how to argue: The Strange case of graduate-level academic writing

Once
every two weeks, fellow graduate students in my department gather to discuss
reading and writing practices. We’re all at different stages in the doctoral
process—some trudging through coursework, others in the midst of reading lists
and exams, and others still in the quagmire of dissertation writing (and
rewriting, ad infinitum). During these meetings, one student often
distributes a sample of their work for peer evaluation, and almost always, that
student will introduce their sample paragraph with some variation on this
theme:

“I
feel like I’ve forgotten how to write.”

This
might seem like an odd claim for graduate students to make—we who have read so
extensively, and who have spent so much time honing our analytical skills—but
graduate programs (particularly ones in the humanities) demand forms of writing
strikingly unlike their undergraduate forebears. Nor will that first, huge leap
from undergraduate- to graduate-level writing suffice: The transition from
graduate coursework to comprehensive exam essays, and then from exams to
conference papers, articles, and of course the dissertation itself also involves
tremendous upheavals in a student’s writing process.

As
a Writing Centre tutor, I work with students at all levels of post-secondary
education; as a TA, I also grade undergraduate essays. In neither position do I
have the authority to change undergraduate essay expectations, but when I see
firsthand what is expected of students who might one day transition to
graduate-level coursework, I sorely wish I did not have to reinforce a style of
writing that will not grow to meet future academic challenges.

Granted,
undergraduate students already struggle just with the fundamentals of clear,
precise writing. Between learning to construct complete, coherent sentences and
trying to grasp what constitutes appropriate evidence for one’s claims,
undergraduate students have a great deal to learn in the way of rhetoric before
they can hope to master a truly “academic” voice.

Nonetheless,
if undergraduate students were given more opportunity to see the “big picture”
in their writing—to see how a first-year self-reflection essay fits into a
journey that might very well end in published academic papers—they might have
an easier time cultivating an appropriate vocabulary and argumentative style
throughout both their undergraduate and early graduate experiences.

The
following, then, is by no means a comprehensive list of writing components that
need to be “re-learned” by new graduate students—but it is a start. Possibly
the worst thing a scholar can do is convince herself that she has “arrived” at
the perfect academic voice, so as long as you’re always interrogating your
choices as a writer, you can at least spare yourself the rude awakening that
comes each and every time a graduate student discovers that the way they wrote
in the past is no longer a guarantee of future academic success.

Undergraduate students are advised to get to
the point in their essays—to move past notoriously generic claims like “Since
the beginning of time, authors have written books that depict their inner
thoughts and feelings”, and instead identify all the source texts or relevant
experts central to their argument. What this amounts to by third and fourth year
is essay openers like the following:

While the
Weird Sisters from Shakespeare’s Macbeth appear in a range of recent literary analyses, modern scholarship
remains weak on the subject of animality in relation to these characters and
their speeches. In [X article], Y argues that Macduff’s brutal birth serves as
a positive representation of human animality, but the presence of other animal
and bodily references throughout this play suggests otherwise.

This format might suffice for the needs of a conference paper (a form of
writing read at two minutes per page, for a total reading time of anywhere from
10 to 20 minutes), but it will not do for a graduate-level essay, thesis
chapter, or submitted article. Rather, the very brevity and precision
undergraduate students are told to strive for must be replaced with new metrics
for success: Can you be both succinct and
comprehensive? Does your paper tell a story? Have you mastered the art of
presenting multiple histories or analyses in sequence without ever losing the
reader’s confidence that everything will tie together in the end?

There is no exact template for this level of
academic writing, but you can find good models to emulate by reading recent
academic papers and books in your field. When you do so, pay attention to the
following components:

a)How long is the introductory section? Likelier
than not, the introduction is indeed a section,
and not just a paragraph. What percentage of the overall paper is made up of
introductory detail? When does the central argument emerge?

b)What rhetorical strategies do introductory
sections in your discipline employ? Oftentimes a paper will begin with a detailed
anecdote and progress to broader theoretical concepts, but another common
approach is to summarize at length the history of a given discourse to date. Again,
pay attention to how much space is used in forwarding specific points.

c)How is the “middle” of the paper formed? Some
papers follow a highly segmented structure, with “mini-essays” on specific
components of the overarching argument or topic under investigation identified
by subheadings. (These papers can usually be read piecemeal by future
researchers for relevant content.) Other papers, however, have no divisions
whatsoever, which suggests that the author’s central argument is meant to be
read as accumulating in a direct manner, without pause—like a snowball
gathering speed and weight as it descends a mountain range.

d)How long is the conclusion? Some papers have
extensive conclusion sections (especially those trying to gather together a
range of different arguments), while others (e.g. ones using the snowball
effect) might be relying on that cumulative writing style to carry the bulk of
their arguments forward, and thus only dedicate a sentence or two to formal
concluding thoughts.

2. Definitions

Undergraduate students are often encouraged
to define central terms for their argument explicitly in their introductory
paragraph, and most respond to this instruction by literally citing a
dictionary definition (in early years) or a relevant expert’s definition (in
upper years).

Graduate students are certainly not excluded
from needing to define their terms, but more often than not, the implicit
expectation is that they will define their terms in context, by applying given words directly to the situation or
related concept under review.

There is sense to this move, since the
audience for graduate student papers is expected to be well-informed about the
field under discussion, and graduate students are themselves expected to
perform as equally-qualified participants therein. Undergraduate students,
conversely, are expected to demonstrate
their knowledge to an informed member of a given discourse community; graduate
students are meant to act as de facto
members themselves.

Undergraduate students are expected to
demonstrate expertise in a given field by nodding to, at most, a handful of
peer-reviewed authorities who have commented on the essay topic at hand. Not
surprisingly, graduate student expectations are considerably steeper: For many
an article (and of course your dissertation), you are most certainly expected
to conduct a comprehensive review of all relevant literature surrounding your
chosen topic. This review must both accurately summarize each highlighted
expert’s argument and evaluate its
significance (within the history of your chosen topic), as well as its
legitimacy (as an argument unto itself and in relation to competing arguments
by other experts).

In short, prepare to do a heck of a lot of
reading just to craft a few splendid opening lines.

4.
Rewriting (and Rewriting and Rewriting…)

In recent years, undergraduate students have
been tasked with greater frequency to complete “essay prep” assignments before
embarking on a full end-of-term essay. Such assignments encourage students to
think about integral components of their essays well in advance of the final
due date (e.g. the thesis statement, relevant sources, and supporting
evidence), and offer plenty of opportunity for students to fine-tune their
claims before final submission.

For graduate students, spending months on a
given article, major research project, or dissertation chapter is not a choice—and most of the time,
neither is receiving extensive recommendations for revising or even completely
rewriting a given block of text.

These new and rigorous standards for academic
rewriting have the potential to utterly drain even the most passionate of
graduate students. To survive this (seemingly endless) hurdle, graduate
students need to make a concerted effort to adjust their expectations and
attitudes in the following ways:

a)Accept that your work as a researcher is
never really done. If you can treat even your final MRP or dissertation as
simply the most recent conclusion of your studies to date, you’ll be better
situated to let it go and move on.
Rest assured, if you continue in academia as a teaching professional, you will
have your whole career to revisit and further develop arguments therein—and if
you choose not to continue in academia, you’ll still leave your program with a
concrete representation of a host of research and writing skills that will prove
useful to you in the workforce at large.

b)Treat all criticism as constructive
criticism—even if it really doesn’t feel like it. Remember: You have a
committee’s-worth of academic professionals who have chosen, of their own accord, to dedicate precious time to review
your work and offer suggestions that will improve you as both a writer and a
researcher. Granted, some of those suggestions might feel harsh, but try to separate tone from the feedback itself, and
remember that even learning how to deal with other people’s lack of tact has
its benefit as an acquired skill for future work.

c)Finally, never forget why you chose your
research topic, and why you chose to study at this academic level in the first
place. Spending months reworking the same argument ad nauseum can seem at times like an exercise
in either futility or absurdity—but ask yourself: Is there anything else you’d
rather be doing? Anywhere else you’d rather (realistically) be? If the answer
is “no”, then learn to enjoy the journey. You will really never “arrive”
anywhere as a scholar—not if you’re doing it right, at least—but so long as the
twinned processes of academic discovery and debate continue to bring you even a
few moments of sheer delight, just remember that you’re exactly where you need
to be.

You describe the differences in expectations between undergraduate and graduate level writing eloquently, Maggie! We all wish writing were easier, and can only take comfort in how rewarding it can be. Thanks!

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